Hotel ruins? Hmm.
I groan out a laugh but wave toward the van. “Knock yourself out. Just promise you’ll send me the pics for insurance purposes. I’ll even trade you a massage.”
Justin laughs, already pulling his other glove off and fishing in his pocket for his phone.
While Justin lines up shots on his screen, the flash snapping in sharp bursts over the night, I glance at Blake.
He’s ducked under the hood of the van, glaring, but he doesn’t really look like he’s seeing much of anything. I shuffle my feet together.
“So, if anybody on the fire crew wants to stop by, I’m happy to give a big discount for my daring rescuers.”
Blake might as well not have even heard me.
Justin perks, saying, “Yeah? Sweet.”
Meanwhile, the other guy, the sandy-haired one, lifts his head, his expression clearing to focus on me.
“What kind of discount do you give for vehicle repairs?”
I laugh. “Why? Think you can get me a lower rate?”
“I’m only a part-timer on the fire crew. Rest of the time I work at Mitch’s Autobody.” He grins. “Just ask for Rich.”
“Will do.”
For some reason, that seems to get under Blake’s skin.
His shoulders ripple, and his hands go hard against the edge of the hood, knuckles ridged. He pushes himself up, flinging me a look. “Get anything you need out of your van. We’ll give you a lift back to town and send a tow truck for the van in the morning.”
I blink.
I don’t know why I feel so oddly deflated.
Maybe because for a few seconds I’d built up a schoolgirl fantasy around that coaxing, growling voice, the feelies it gave me, wondering how it might feel to have that voice purring against my ear, sweet and dark and jagged.
Meh.
Gruff Jerk: 1.
Lonely Girl: 0.
You win this round, Blake.
My name may be Peace, but I don’t go down without a fight.
If Mr. Snarly-saurus doesn’t want to play, it’s his loss.
* * *
I’m less thinking about fighting and more about sleep by the time I dig my stuff out of my van.
I keep a lot of supplies in there since I often use my van to travel to clients, instead of them coming to me. Justin, Rich, and Blake help, though. It’s a pretty weird look with my folding tables and gear and crates of massage oils stacked on the back of the fire truck by the ladders, but it works.
No obvious smoke damage to my stuff, thank gawd.
The whole time Rich and Justin gab at each other and me, warm and friendly and joking, and it’s not hard to tell they’re trying to make sure I stay calm.
Blake, on the other hand, is completely silent.
It feels almost like he’s trying to disappear.
But I can’t help watching him.
Except for the one time he catches my eye, I linger on the way his limp grows deeper while he hauls my stuff, and a pang of guilt builds inside me when it’s my fault he’s out here hauling my junk.
Another dark flash goes through his gaze again, as if I’d done something wrong by seeing his weakness, and I look away quickly.
It’s not hard to see he’s one of those men who builds walls out of pride.
It’s only my own pride that keeps me awake, though, as the three men bundle me into the front cab of the fire truck. Good thing I’m small, or it’d be a snug fit with all of us.
Rich has me sandwiched up against the door, and it’s hard for me not to fall asleep against his warmth while the cab’s heater melts the icicles under my skin. He kind of reminds me of my dad, especially when he talks about getting home to read his kids a bedtime story, words traded in murmurs with Justin while they leave me to drowse.
It’s like they’re a sandwich of good company, caught between the silence of me against one door and Blake behind the wheel.
But it’s kind of endearing.
Honestly, it’s the first time I feel like I’m close to a group like family, ever since I cast myself into the wind.
I’m nice and toasty, almost asleep, by the time the fire truck pulls up outside the Charming Inn—this quaint touristy spot I really love—with its white-columned plantation house for the main hotel and a field full of cottages leading off to the gorgeous cliff-front views.
I perk up as the fire truck eases to a halt, the engine still running, all three men looking at me in silent question.
“That way,” I say, pointing to a side lane that runs along the fence enclosing one side of the property. “I’m staying in one of the cottages back there. I don’t want to wake anybody up at the main house. I think the owners have a kid.”
“Warren and Haley,” Blake grunts softly. “They’ll have just put their kids down.”